The Storm
by Tilthanial
Summary: When the witcher Mull investigates a mysterious storm in the Kingdom of Kaedwen he discovers dark magic of a kind never seen before.  His bounty takes him on a race against time to end the storm, or be consumed in a world drowning.


_Kingdom of Kaedwen_

_Small village south of the town of Ban Ard_

_Several miles east of the Lixela River_

It was a slow night at the _Three Barrels_ inn. The weather had been sour for much of the past week, and the heavy rains meant flooded roads and few travelers. Many of those that braved the thunderous storm had retreated to the safety of their own homes before the sun set. This weather made for a prime and extended stay with loved ones. Those that had them took advantage of the respite offered by the weather. Those that did not huddled together in the inn, swapping tales of woe as they drank away their sorrows.

The innkeeper did not mind the weather so much. The storms had hit at the tail end of the season, and most of the traders had already come and gone. Every few days a straggler would show up, hawking his wears to the fools that had already wasted their purchases and offering more opportunities to spend their money. The locals were a solid bunch however, and he did not mind the company. His employees were all local girls and boys, and they had little trouble with the other villagers. This was so small a place that everyone knew everyone, and scandal was frowned upon so severely that even the most amorous farmboy kept his hands clear of girls' skirts.

Despite his relatively cheerful demeanor the innkeeper found that the atmosphere in his inn grew darker as the storm carried on. There came a point where too much rain would drown the crops. At the rate the storm had shown, that point was soon approaching. A distinct aura of unease had seeped into his customers over the past few nights as the storm showed no signs of relenting. No amount of work on his part or entertainment by his employees could lighten the mood.

Those thoughts weighed heavily on his mind as he filled three beakers with ale. In normal times he would not bother with such a task, but recently he had been making the rounds himself in a vain attempt to lift the customers' spirits. Topping off the beakers with a perfectly filled rim of froth, he set them on a platter and carried the drinks to the table closest to the hearth. Four wizened men occupied the table, bodies toughened by many years at the plow and hair grayed by the same. The fourth, Lionel, already had his drink. Lionel's daughter Jesse worked at the inn after she finished her chores at home. Jesse was by far the innkeeper's favorite girl. Always quick on the order and ready to give a dazzling smile, Jesse's pleasing voice and musical laughter was the best weapon he could find against the heavy weather that oppressed their village.

Seeing that the other customers were all served and content, the innkeeper bobbed his head respectfully and pulled up a chair. He gave a little sigh as he settled in, adjusting his weight so it best rested on the seat. The villagers scooted aside to give him room, eyes darting between their drinks and the innkeeper's cheerless smile with approving gleams.

"Thank you kindly" the oldest said, speaking for them all. "How's business been, Marcus?"

"Same as since this storm hit" the innkeeper answered, shrugging helplessly. "I keep busy."

"Yours is the only work keeping busy" Lionel grumbled. He flashed the innkeeper an apologetic smile. "I don't mean any insult. The host has been more than generous during these dark times."

"I understand your frustration" Marcus said. He shrugged helplessly and gestured around them. "I suffer a bad week and I am out coin. A week like this must have you all worried for your livelihood."

His words set off a collective bobbing of heads and curses against the weather. Turning the topic away from the rain, Marcus gestured to them all questioningly.

"What brings you all here then? Elder's meeting?"

The eldest, Ezrey, shook his head grimly. "It is. I wished our topic pleasant, but I am afraid that fate dealt us another rotten hand. Thorton's sons were found last night, drowned in the lake."

"Drowned?" Marcus felt his stomach twist in knots at the revelation. Thorton was one of the outlying farmers, the furthest west of the village. His family raised a small but potent hops garden in addition to their normal crops. Marcus and Thorton had a business understanding where Thorton provided a portion of his hops to the _Three Barrels_ while Marcus provided his family with discounted prices from the small store he ran on the side.

More surprising than the news that his sons were dead was the method. Thorton's sons were both rising men, the youngest having seen sixteen winters. All of the village boys were accomplished swimmers, and they learned early not to go into the lake after so much rain had fallen. Even the simplest farmer child understood the dangers of running water and sudden heavy rains.

"There is something strange going on" Lionel growled. He took a long swig from his tankard and set it heavily on the oak tabletop. "First this never ending storm, then the rider, now this."

"Rider?"

Marcus glanced at the others sharply. Being the only inn in the village, all travelers stopped by at some point or another during their stay. The thought that he had missed one came as a slap in the face to his profession.

"He did not stay" Ezrey said, holding up his hand soothingly. "It was yesterday, a little after sunrise I think. He came by the road from Ban Ard. The man drove his horse like the devil himself was giving chase. I called to him as he rode by, but he hardly slowed."

That news did little to ease Marcus' already troubled thoughts. Marcus, having been raised in the city of Carraigh, was hardly a superstitious man. The incredible timing of these incidents felt too unseemly to be mere coincidence however. His face soured in a pensive frown as he digested the news. The villagers did not interrupt him. They nursed their beers like penniless drunks, sipping slowly and straining every bit of flavor from it. Every so often Every glanced towards the inn's entrance, but his eyes would always return to the table after a second's wait.

"Are you expecting someone else" Marcus ventured to ask. The villagers exchanged dark glances. One by one they looked Ezrey in the eye then stared away.

"There was another traveler that came by today" Lionel said, answering for the others. "He never entered the village proper."

The guarded tone in the man's voice piqued Marcus' interest. He sensed the conspiratorial nature of the men's gazes and leaned forward, eager to be in the know.

"Who was it?"

"It was a-"

Ezrey's words cut short when the _Three Barrels_' door burst open, propelled by an unseen force. The explosive blast of the door slamming open shook everyone in the inn. Chairs were overturned as frightened villagers leapt to their feet, all eyes going to the door to see what had caused the noise.

A lone figure strode into the inn. The first thing Marcus noted was the unkempt mass of dark brown hair matted against the figure's head like a soaked towel. The man was wearing a suit of blackened leather armor pieces, crossed by several bandoliers and belts. All manner of vials, pouches and knives filed the bandoliers. The man had a heavy cloak pulled close around his body, but there was no denying two horrifying facts about the man. First, he was armed with two swords, a hiltless longsword on one hip, a giant broadsword on the other. Second, and more disturbing than the first, the white shirt under his leather was soaked in blood too dark to belong to human.

"A witcher" Marcus gasped. His breath caught in his throat as a pair of golden lupine eyes swept the room with such a commanding presence that the villagers all fell silent. Witcher. Monster hunter. An unholy breed of man corrupted by godless alchemy and sorcery. Witchers were masterful artists, and their art was death. Wherever one walked, destruction followed.

The witcher's eyes settled on their table. Crossing the inn's floor in long and confident strides, the witcher came up to the table and looked Ezrey straight in the eye. The other elders shied away from the man-thing, blanching in fear as his hand drifted to the smooth pommel of his broadsword.

"Your suspicions were correct" the witcher announced, his voice coming as a low animalistic growl. There was no humanity in his tone, only a chafed and grating rage that ground painfully in their ears. "Your lake had been infested with drowners."

The villagers flinched in horror at the news. A second of stunned silence followed his remark, then the villagers leapt up in a panic, all voices erupting at once in a babble of claims to go warn family and friends. The witcher did not look away from Ezrey, but he cowed the crowd with a single booming word.

"Silence!"

The thunder in his voice broke through the hubbub and froze the villagers in their tracks. The witcher pointed with one hand out of the inn.

"I killed the ones that I could find. If there are more, they are so deep in the lake that they will not bother you for some time."

"That's all well and good" Lionel stammered, unable to tear his gaze from the bloody sleeve of the witcher's shirt. The blood still glistened in the fire light. "But how do we know you are telling the truth? Drowners… those are creatures of legend. Are you sure they were not mere bandits?"

The man's faltering courage quailed when the witcher calmly shifted his gaze. Unable to face the man's inhuman golden eyes, Lionel's words fumbled to a halt and he stared aimlessly at the table.

"Witchers do not lie. If you need proof, look outside your door."

The serving girls gasped in shock. One took a hesitant step towards the door, but Ezrey motioned for her to stay away. Sighing heavily, the man reached to his belt and drew a money pouch from his belt. The elders had scraped together as much as they could find to pay the witcher. They fervently hoped it would be enough.

"I thank you, witcher. Here is your agreed upon bounty."

The witcher took the money without urgency. Marcus could have sworn he saw the witcher flash a grim smile as he tucked the pouch into a larger one on his belt. It was not a fat pouch, but it did not look light either.

Marcus's eyes darted away from the witcher's belt as the witcher turned his head to face him. Eyeing him shrewdly, the witcher took a step back and inclined his head.

"You are the proprietor" he said. Marcus nodded reluctantly, wondering whether or not the witcher had caught his prying eyes.

"I am."

"I'll have a beer and a meal if you have something hot."

Saying no more than that, the witcher pulled his cloak back over his arms and retreated to a corner table. Although the man must have been soaked and chilled to the bone he sat with his back to the wall, as far from the fire as he could manage. He could also watch everyone in the inn, Marcus realized. A serving girl went obediently to fetch his order. Marcus followed her to the tap and shooed her away. He did not want the young girls going anywhere near that man. Witchers held strange powers over women. He would not be responsible for some naïve village girl getting in some sort of scandal with the man.

The witcher had shed his cloak by the time Marcus reached his table. With the heavy cloak on the witcher looked mysterious and deadly. Without the cloak, basking in the full glory of his armor, he looked absolutely terrifying. Stylized runes depicting the eagle marked his dark leather armor. Not only did he have the two swords at his side, but a studded flail was strapped around his left arm. He had enough weapons to kill an entire company of soldiers. He more than likely had the skill to as well.

Marcus noted that the witcher's shirt sleeve had torn inside the man's elbow. The fabric around it was stained with both lighter and darker blood. In the shadows he could not see it well enough to tell how much belonged to the man and how much to a monster. Either way, it had to be painful. Yet the witcher did not so much as bat an eye as he calmly lifted the tankard to his lips.

"Here you are, good sir" Marcus stammered, feeling himself grow weak in the witcher's presence. The witcher nodded his thanks and dropped three coins on the table. Marcus snatched them up, a little too quickly perhaps, and backed away, conscious of the dark humor in the man's eyes at his discomfort. Once he had retreated to a safe enough distance he looked down at the coins.

They were the villagers' own coins. Three was more than enough for a single person's meal, if not a meal for two. Marcus was not sure what to make of that implication. Deciding that the witcher simply felt generous, he tucked the coins away and returned to the village elders' table.

"He eats like a dog" Lionel whined. Ezrey elbowed him roughly.

"Mind your manners while he is inside" Ezrey hissed. The other elders glared darkly at Lionel, shaming him into silence. "Witcher's have uncanny hearing."

That shut the man up, and for a while they contented themselves to watch the witcher with sneaky glances. The witcher showed no interest in the inn's other patrons. Focused on his meal, the witcher made little spectacle of his presence. That did not lessen the villagers' curiosity.

After some time the witcher stood up and gathered his cloak. Before Marcus could get up one of the serving girls darted in and picked up the platter and tankard. He frowned when the foolish girl stopped for a moment, watching the witcher's back as he donned his cloak. He could tell by the way she shifted her weight that she was building the courage to speak. _Heavens help the fool girl_. Rising quickly, he started over to intercept her before she said or did something foolish.

"You… you're hurt" the girl said, her voice little more than a squeak. She might have meant it as a statement, but her voice conveyed it more as a question in her uncertainty. The witcher half-turned towards her, his golden eyes gleaming unnaturally in the fire light. His eyes flicked over her, taking in her form in the space of a heartbeat. That looked froze the blood in Marcus' veins. He had seen that look before. Predators watched their prey with those same eyes.

"Apparently" the witcher replied, his voice flat as a board. His answer must not have been what the girl expected, because she rocked back on her heels and took a deep breath. A delicate flush came to her cheeks as the witcher took a step closer.

"You should get that stitched up, so it won't get infected."

He stood so close that her nose nearly touched his chest. Marcus continued walking, cutting between tables with some difficulty. _Gods, get that girl out of here. She doesn't know the danger._

"What's your name, girl."

"Jesse."

Her courage seemed to return as the witcher looked past her and eyed Marcus approaching as rapidly as his heavy bulk allowed him to. A ghost of a smile flickered on his lips. The smile bore promise of many things, none of them good.

"We don't get infected" he told her, and she let out a deep breath. Nodding almost imperceptibly to Marcus, he swept his cloak up and around his body and headed for the door. "And you're not worth the trouble."

Jesse's face turned deathly pale. The witcher threw the door open and disappeared into the pouring rain. A loud clap of thunder echoed through the inn as the door stood open. Marcus hurried past the girl and shut the door as quickly as he could. Then, rounding on the girl, he fixed her with a stern glare.

"What were you thinking, Jesse? That man was a witcher! You don't go talking to them. It isn't safe."

Her cheeks were wet with tears. Setting the man's platter down gingerly, she wrapped her arms around her chest and hugged herself tightly. She shivered hard, as if her nerves all released at once.

"I don't rightly know," she murmured, speaking as one just out of a trance. Her breathing came quickly and she sat down. "I just… it felt…"

Cursing under his breath, Marcus took her by the arm and guided her to a seat by the fireplace. He sat her down in a chair and ordered one of the other girls to fetch a blanket. He had seen witcher devilry worked on women before. Jesse would get over it in a few minutes, once the cursed thing was gone from their village. Poor girl. It would have been better had she never laid eyes on the man.

"Drowners."

Ezrey sat down beside the girl, offering his heavy coat. A troubled frown settled on his face as he stared into the fire. Marcus knew what ran through his mind.

"Drowner's are black magic," he said. "And the worst kind."

The village elder nodded slowly. An idea came to Marcus suddenly, and he caught Ezrey's attention.

"This storm isn't natural either. You should have hired the witcher to look into it, since you had him around as it was."

"We did not have the money for it."

"You could have asked me. I've got enough to lend."

Lionel sat down on Jesse's other side with a groan. Hugging his daughter close, he looked from Ezrey to Marcus and shook his head. She cried into his shoulder, more out of shame than hurt. Jesse had a sensitive heart, and the witcher's remark had cut her deeply.

"It's all in the past now. I've heard of this witcher. Mull is his name, and he is trouble. Better to pray to the gods than to keep him around any longer."

He patted his daughter's head in emphasis. Snuggled up under his arm, she whimpered fitfully.

"Then we must pray," Ezrey said. "And we must pray hard. If this rain continues another week it will be us who risk drowning, not the crops."

Mull had barely left the inn when he drew back his hood and bared his face to the biting rain. A low and throaty chuckle built in his lungs and he cast a careless glance back to the inn. His presence had caused quite a stir. That cute little serving girl had not interested him as it was. She was too young and scrawny for his tastes.

His horse stood waiting patiently for him, large eyes flicking towards him with a bored expression as he mounted her and slapped the side of her neck warmly.

"Time to go, Bait," he murmured, knowing his voice would carry only as far as the horse's ears. Bair tossed her head eagerly. She did not like this rain. Someone had once told Mull that certain animals, horses and dogs to be exact, could sense the supernatural far better than even witchers. Mull was not sure if that was true, but Bait had never failed to give him some sign of warning whenever something was amiss. She had been throwing out signs ever since they had passed under this miserable storm.

Then again, one could but look at it and know that it was unnatural. There was no wind at all inside the rainy walls of the storm. For over a week it had hung on the horizon like a pestering beggar outside a butcher shop. By the third day it had earned his interest. By the fifth someone had been willing to pay to see what the matter was.

The drowners in the lake had been the first physical indication of something amiss with the weather. Drowners were not as rare as people believed, but they were not common either. Usually they were the product of excess or wild magic energy released in spellcasting. These ones had been fresh.

Letting his thoughts slide away to the more important matter, where he would sleep that night, Mull prodded Bait with his knees. She started up the road towards Ard Carraigh at a gamely trot. There was no sense in hurrying this night. If he found shelter, he would take it. Any way it came, he was already soaked to the bone. A few extra hours in the rain would not hurt him.

Bait seemed to agree, because she held her pace as they traveled up the road. He had not seen another traveler since passing under the cloud. That did not bother him. An empty road was a quiet road. Fewer people meant fewer distractions, and fewer distractions meant more time to himself.

As far as witchers went Mull was a rather lonely one. He returned to Kaer Morhen at least once a year, but besides that any encounters with the others were purely coincidental. Many of the witchers attributed it to the fact that his vocal chords had been heavily scarred during his Trials. Unable to speak as a normal man any more, Mull spoke little even in the presence of other witchers. His words in the inn were more than he had spoken in most of a week.

Two hours down the road found the path submerged in muddy water. Bait slowed to a halt before the water, jerking her head away meaningfully when Mull gently dug his knees into her flanks. Perplexed, Mull tried to urge her on again. When she did not move the second time he got down from Bait's back and approached the edge. The water was hardly deeper than his boots. Still, Bait had never led him wrong. Deciding to err on the side of caution, he tossed his cloak back over his shoulders and drew his hiltless longsword. The silvery blade glistened wickedly at the prospect of shedding more blood.

With his horse watching disapprovingly, Mull took a cautious step into the water. No monsters rose to greet him so he took another step forward, this time with more confidence. The water remained calm. He felt himself relax despite the nagging in his head and he lowered his sword. Returning to Bait's side, he took her reins and guided her into the water. She did not struggle as he took careful steps on the submerged path. Near the other side he caught a glimpse of a large and nasty rut in the middle of the path. Had he been on horseback he would not have seen it, but it was deep enough to catch Bait's hooves and send her sprawling to the ground.

Patting her muzzle appreciatively, Mull guided her around the rut and back onto the drier path. Now that he was already on foot he did not feel like climbing back up, so he contented himself to walk Bait down the road. His horse did not mind the break, and she nudged his shoulder as they left the submerged path behind them.

After some time a lone building appeared on the side of the road, opposite the forest to his left. The sky was too dark to make out details, but he thought he saw a faint light flickering through the cracks under the door. Not stopping to consider who might be living there, Mull tied Bait under a sheltering tree and walked up to the door. He took care to not knock too loudly. It would not do to scare the homedwellers witless before asking for shelter for a little while.

The door creaked under the impact of his fist, inching inwards with each knock. After a moment he heard the scuff of a chair being scraped across packed dirt. A wrinkled and bearded face appeared at the door, peering out at him with a wary expression.

"I have traveled far" Mull growled, trying his best to not let his voice terrify the old man. "May I spend some time in the shelter of your home?"

The words had barely left his mouth when the man nodded and opened the door all the way. Mull thanked him quietly and slipped inside. The man was a simple forester, he saw, judging by the set of furs hanging by the fire. They looked expertly skinned, if a little old. The old man pulled a second stool over to the fire and motioned for him to sit down. Mull took off his cloak and laid it on the ground before the little fire before sitting down himself. If the old man was surprised by the multitude of weapons on his person he did not show it.

Neither spoke for a long while. At the man's urging Mull began stripping off his leather armor and set it down to dry beside his cloak. He kept his swords close at hand, just in case anything funny should come charging through the door. Trouble had a habit of following witchers to the most unlikely of places.

At last the old man broke the silence.

"That is a fancy sword you've got there," he mumbled indicating Mull's silver sword. "You wouldn't by chance happen to be one of them witchers, would you be?"

"You are quite observant" Mull hissed. The old man smiled broadly.

"My eyes may not be so good anymore, but I've got a good memory. I've seen more of your kind, back in my younger days. Good and honest folk, you witchers are."

That was not the response Mull was expecting. He shrugged half-heartedly at the man and went back to letting his legs dry by the fire. Not to be intimidated by his silence, the old man continued.

"You're here looking for the source of the storm, aren't you?"

Mull shook his head. A confused frown came on the man's face.

"No one is willing to pay for that yet" he explained. The old man slapped his knee in wonder at Mull's words.

"Haha, I like the way you think." The man's eyes sharpened suddenly, and he dropped all pretenses of mirth. "What if I could make it worth your while?"

The sudden shift got Mull's attention. He took his time looking up from the flames, careful to not show too much interest. The old man reached out a hand towards his arm eagerly. Mull casually leaned back to avoid the man's touch.

"Explain" he muttered, looking the man over with second thoughts. The man was certainly as old as he had first thought. He was, however, not a scrawny man. His arms were wiry with corded muscle and his body had the definite shape of one used to hard work. The sharpness in his eyes did not belong in the body of an old timer.

"I know the source of the storm" he promised. "I know how to make it stop."

"Then why have you not stopped it yourself?"

His question brought the chuckle back to the old man. "I'm far too old to go adventuring and fighting monsters, witcher. That is a job I would leave for the young ones."

"Understood." Mull's gaze flicked over the man's hut. It hardly looked like the place that a man of wealth would own. When he looked back to the old man he raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Payment?"

"Don't you worry about that" the old man cackled. "I promise you, you won't be disappointed."

Mull felt himself growing curious, partly about the old man, and partially about the source of the storm. Settling himself back on the stool, Mull waited for the old man to explain. He did not have long to wait. The old man could barely contain himself.

"The woods have been infested" the old man whispered. "Infested by a monstrous being."

"That much I can gather on my own" Mull snapped. "This storm is not natural."

"Ah, yes, the storm." He was not put off by the witcher's insolence. Rather, he seemed to revel in it. "That isn't natural, but the cause of it is. You see, witcher, there's a dryad in my forest."

Mull was not sure which bothered him more, the way the man said "my forest," or the fact that he was pinning this on a dryad. Dryads were hardly aggressive creatures. He had never met any personally, but he had heard and read much about them. Vesemir had been careful to instill in Mull an appreciation for the magical beings of the world during his training.

"A dryad" he repeated after a long pause. "Do you think me stupid?"

"No, witcher, I don't." The old man mistook his question. "They do exist. This one is a bad egg, a very bad egg. I encountered her some time ago during one of my hunts. She's a crazed one, she is. Nearly killed me before I escaped."

"You are saying that a dryad is causing this storm?"

Nodding fervently, the man eyed him with a hopeful yearning. "She needs to be killed, witcher. That demon will destroy the region, submerge it in a terrible flood."

With a sudden lunge the man sprang forward and fell on his knees. His eyes shone excitedly as he clasped his hands together.

"Please, witcher. I have no money, but I have heard tales of the magic you use on your swords. Here, take this."

Fumbling with in his pockets, the old man produced a fist-sized object wrapped in rough homespun scraps. Pulling the scraps aside, the man showed him a shard of white stone carved with eldritch runes. Mull eyed the runes studiously, absorbing the patterns to his mind. The old man did not know it, but possession of the stone did not matter as long as the rune itself could be reproduced. Granted, the power of the runes were affected by the matter they came from, but simply knowing the rune would serve him well enough.

The man had no idea he had just given away his payment for free. Mull briefly considered saying no, but it would have been a cruel thing to do. The man was certainly an odd one, but he was earnest, and the job would be an interesting one. He had always wanted to meet a dryad, no matter the circumstances. After taking the time to consider his options he slowly clapped the man on the shoulder and offered the faintest of smiles.

"So be it, old one. I will find this dryad of yours and see to it that the storm troubles you no more."

He chose his words carefully, knowing that what he said would bind him to the contract. It did not have to be written, but the knowledge of his promise would hold him to what he had sworn. The man did not seem to notice the vagueness of his promise. Leaping to his feet, he let out an unseemly whoop of joy.

"Rest here for as long as you want to, witcher. I lost track of time, but it should be close to midnight by now. Whenever you are ready feel free to take off. I can't follow you into the trees, but I can point you in the right direction."

"That would be appreciated" Mull growled. Sliding out of the stool, he moved his clothes over and made a space by the fire. The old man caught his hint and wandered off to the small corner where he had a rough patch of hay to serve as a bed. To all appearances he fell fast asleep. Mull knew differently. His inhumanly sharp hearing counted the too slow breaths that were the sign of a meditative trance. This old man was full of surprises. Trances were a rare art, practiced mainly by sorceresses, witchers and other magic users. The amount of will and discipline required to fall into a trance was unattainable to the majority of people, human or otherwise.

Those thoughts in mind, Mull managed to find his inner balance and fell into a similar trance. It was much lighter than the man's, waking Mull with every little noise that stuck out from the normal. He rested fitfully, waking up too often to get any real sleep. Sleeping in the same room as a person who could trance meant sleeping next to a very powerful being. Mull did not like strangers that were powerful.

Mull got up after an appropriate period of time and put his armor back on. The rain still poured outside, but he opted to put his silver sword through the sheath on his back. It would be easier for him to draw should he run into the old man's fearsome dryad. Leaving his regular sword at his hip, he put the rest of his gear on and headed for the door. The old man rose with a start as he opened the door, woken by the blast of frigid air that swept the hut.

"Heading out now, are you" he mumbled, blinking rapidly as his body recovered to normal functioning levels. The old man eyed Mull approvingly. "Ah, but don't you look the fearsome monster slayer."

The man called out after him as he went into the cold, chasing him with gloating cries of the witcher's future victory. Mull tried hard to ignore the man's cries. Bait rose to her four legs and snorted as he approached. She clopped forward until she reached the end of her reins. Whinnying fitfully, she jerked her head towards the reins and waited for him to untie her.

Loosening the knot with practiced hands, he slapped her on the rump to get her moving and gestured towards the road.

"You aren't following me into the forest, Bait. Go back to Ard Carriagh. Find Juniper, she'll take care of you."

Bait sniffed derisively at the name. For a horse, she was damned intelligent. Mull let her nuzzle him a few more times before pushing her on towards the road. With one last whinny she started cantering down the road towards Ard Carriagh. As soon as she faded into the darkness Mull adjusted his shoulders straps and started for the woods.

The rain abated somewhat once under the heavy canopy of the trees. The forest noises that Mull was so used to were either drowned out or nonexistent as he made his way through the brush. A few inquisitive creatures peeked out from their holes to inspect the intruder on their land, but none stayed out for more than a few seconds before vanishing back in their holes. The witcher moved with enough certainty and care that he did not stand out to the forest creatures.

Having spent a good deal of his life in the Kaedwen kingdom, Mull had studied the geography of the land quite thoroughly. The majority of his work placed him in the middle part of the region, but he stayed near enough to Ard Carraigh to have spent time learning the lay of the southern area. The forest was not more than ten miles across. He could canvas the place in a few days, but chances were he would find the dryad sooner rather than later. Trouble followed witchers, after all.

He was not sure how long he walked before he found the first signs of unnatural effects. Tree trunks began to warp and twist at odd angles, the leaves turned black and wilted, blades of grass melted into ashes when touched by his boot. None of it was natural or explainable but for magic. Mull's medallion hummed soothingly on his breastbone, warning him that something was watching him.

His reactions might have been blessed through alchemy to levels beyond mortal man, but Mull was not one to leave his back open. A faint tension built in his muscles as he casually reached behind his shoulder and slid the silver blade from his back. He gave it an experimental twirl, letting his arms adjust to the familiar weight. Just knowing that it was in his hands made him feel more secure.

The further he walked, the greater his feeling of being followed. He felt eyes on his back, hollow and dead eyes that reeked of filth and death. It did not surprise Mull when he caught the scent of his shadows. _Drowners_. Where there were some, there were many. He heaved a light sigh and brought the dull side of his sword up to rest on his shoulder. Turning back in the direction he came, he looked between the murky darkness and spotted shambling bodies appearing through the mist. First came two, then four, then seven. That was a good number to deal with at once. Were they men, Mull might have considered going to one of the potions on his bandolier. These were mere drowners however, and they posed little threat. His silver blade would shatter their bones like matchsticks.

"Come on then" Mull snarled, feeling a wash of comfort as his voice finally found an appropriate audience. The drowners did not answer him save for the glassy-eyed moans as they limped across the forest floor. Webbed feet that were made for swimming found poor purchase on the rough grass, slowing them ever further. Mull sized them up cautiously, reminding himself to stay wary. Despite their ungainly form on land, they were quick and strong creatures, terrible to face in water. With all this rain it was no surprise that they had ventured into the forest.

Mull waited patiently until the first drowner came within reach. Tossing his shoulder forward, Mull whipped his silver blade across his body at neck height. The deceptively light blade ripped effortlessly through the rotting flesh, cleaving the drowner's head from its shoulders in a spurt of dark blood.

The witcher did not hesitate after the first kill. Knowing full well the danger of posed by a gang of drowners, Mull spun around the falling body and plunged his sword into the chest of the next. The drowner recoiled as the silver burned its flesh, but it was hardly dead. A low moan that would shake the courage of a stout man emanated from its throat. A webbed and clawed hand swept up at his hand, trying to bat the sword away. Mull accepted the blow with a grunt. Tensing his arm, he ripped the blade free of the drowner's chest, splitting its torso from ribs to throat. The grasping hand fell away as the drowner crumpled to the ground beside the other.

By the time he recovered his stance the other five had closed in around him. Claws swiped at him from all sides, followed by awkward lunges filled with salivating teeth. Mull danced away from their blows, cutting through flesh and bone with ease. A biting claw cut his cheek, propelled from the drowner behind his back. Returning the blow with one of his own, Mull hacked the arm from the monster and planted a kick in its belly that broke its spine. It flopped around like a stuck fish, arms twitching helplessly as Mull retreated over its body, stomping its neck and face as he did.

The remaining drowners, battered and bloody from the fight, fell quickly before his skilled blade. When the last fell Mull was breathing heavily. He tasted blood on his lips, and reaching up to his cheek he felt the jagged wound with distaste. It would scar him when it healed. Monster wounds always did. He angrily wiped his blade clean on the bark of a sapling before sheathing the weapon. His arm itched as he wiped the blood from his cheek. Looking down, he saw that his arm was bloodied as well. It was the same wound from before, reopened in the fury of his combat.

Mull pulled a thick bandage from his pack and wrapped it around his wound to stop the bleeding. He looked around to catch his bearings as he tended to the wound. Once certain that it was no longer oozing his life fluids he continued on in the direction he had been traveling. The drowners would rot away, taken by the forest. A brief moment of peace settled on his chest as he continued on. His medallion had grown still, now chill against his skin.

The signs of taint continued as he progressed through the woods, but they grew no worse than the odd rot or ashen grasses. His medallion bothered him no more as he searched. Despite this his attention never wavered, and he kept his arms loose and itching for the hilt of his sword. Not all enemies warmed his medallion, and not all dangers came from flesh and blood.

The thunderous beat of the rain washed the monsters' blood from his armor. Mull idly pulled the hood of his cloak over his head as he walked under the trees, tugging the edge of his hood forward until the rain no longer splashed in his eyes. From the shelter of his hood he studied the forest for signs of the source of the region's troubles.

It was not until he neared the river Lixela that he found the firsts signs of concentrated magic. A tree, shattered and splintered as if struck in the middle by lightning, then a small copse flattened outwards as if there had been some explosion. That settled all of the doubt in his mind. A dryad would never harm any forest so. Whoever had caused this, the dryad was not to blame.

His thoughts went back to the old man by the road, the queer one who had set him on this quest. He certainly had been hiding something, but Mull did not know what. When he returned to the man's home he would confront the old one about his secrets.

His day was not over yet though, and Mull had yet to reach the river. Continuing on through the blasted clearing, Mull examined the surrounding trees closely. Even in the midst of the destruction caused by the blast, he saw signs of healing. Withering branches bore green nubs that should not have grown. That, that was the mark of a dryad's power. Mull eyed the juvenile shoots approvingly, going so far as to even touch one. A genuine smile creased his lips, of a kind that he had not felt in many a long year.

"Have you come to kill me, witcher?"

He did not start at the soft voice that crept up behind him. No noise announced her approach, but Mull felt the dryad's presence as she drew closer. There was no fear in her voice, no tremble in her steps. The dryad was not afraid of him.

"The old man told me that you did this."

A slender hand, colored the soft green of northern frostmoss, stretched past his shoulder and touched the buds he had been admiring. Tracing the hand back along the smooth and supple arm, Mull turned to look into the face of the forest nymph. His breath choked in his scarred throat as he beheld the beautiful dryad of the forest.

By men's standards she was short and alien, with almond-shaped eyes, a heart-shaped face and flowing hair that cascaded over and around her like a shifting garment, protecting her modesty from his prying eyes. Hair alone could not deny the tempting swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips. Mull allowed himself to admire her figure for a moment before bowing his head respectfully.

"You know then, that this is not the work of a dryad?"

She did not look him in the eye, but studied the withered tree with a mournful gaze. Tears like sap rimmed her eyes as she ran her hand along the tortured length of the branch.

"This is a wizard's work" Mull agreed.

"Not the work of a wizard, witcher." The dryad shook her head sorrowfully. "It is the curse of something far worse. I fear that I have been the cause of this desecration, but it is not my hand that enacted it."

"The old man."

A wistful smile flickered on her lips, fading as quickly as it appeared.

"Hann is his name. He is a druid, one who has lost his path to the poison of lust and rage." The dryad looked up at him, finally meeting his eyes. "Do you know how we bear young, witcher? When the time comes, we pick a man of superior character. Be he great of body or mind, his strength is carried on to the child. Hann was my lover, many years ago."

Mull blinked slowly, recalling the lessons from his youth. "He could not let you go."

The sadness in the dryad's eyes deepened. "Ever since that time, he has followed me. I tried to leave him, tried to turn him away, but he always came back. I thought that perhaps by leaving Brokilon he would give up."

"But he did not."

Such a simple answer only worsened her mood. Her eyes dropped to the blasted copse.

"I encountered him here, and turned him away. In his anger he grew mad, and cursed the forest. Ever since, the rains have fallen."

Grabbing his arm suddenly, she captured his gaze. "The heart of the forest is dying, witcher. He has wrought some terrible evil that I cannot undo. You must go to him and beg him to stop this madness."

"He offered me a powerful gift for your death" Mull told her. The dryad felt the assuredness in his voice and took a hesitant step back. She trembled now, skin changing to a dusky green like pine leaves.

"You gave him your oath" she whispered, her breath coming a heavy gasp. Understanding filled her eyes and she bowed her head obediently. "I know the value of a witcher's oath. Then I cannot convince you otherwise."

She offered no resistance. Falling to her knees, the dryad gently pulled her hair from her neck, presenting him with a clean view of her throat. Mull watched her for a moment, wondering at how meekly she surrendered herself to death.

"I told the man I would find you" Mull growled. He took her by the shoulders and stood her up. "And I told him I would see to it that the storm would trouble him no more. Never did I promise him your death."

Confusion clouded her face. Mull cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her head up until she faced him.

"You would give up that easily, dryad?"

"If it would convince you that Hann needed to be dealt with, then I would gladly sacrifice myself for the forest."

"Admirable" he said with a grunt. "What is your name?"

"I am Dair." She smiled warmly. The cheer showed her in a new light, and Mull found that he rather liked the way her lips curved invitingly. "And you, noble witcher? What may I call you by?"

"Mull."

Her nose wrinkled at the plain-sounding name. Reaching up with a tentative hand, she took his hand and drew it away from her face.

"I fear that I cannot repay this debt, Mull. We dryads are not creatures of material belongings."

"My work is already paid for," he answered quietly. "Hann saw to that."

The dryad did not miss the irony, and she began walking in the direction he had come from. Mull followed without hesitation, his eyes drifting across the naked skin of her back appreciatively. Dryads saw little need for modesty, being creatures of the woods. That confidence was definitely not a trait he frowned on. Dair was by far one of the shapeliest women he had ever met. A woman of average height with her proportions would leave men drooling on the streets.

She noticed the intensity of his gaze as they walked. Brushing her hair back over her shoulder, she covered herself from his prying eyes.

"Do you look at all women thusly, witcher Mull?"

"You are very beautiful" was his reply. She did not blush at his remark, but merely tipped her head in thanks for the compliment.

"I am not versed in the human customs, but I take it you are not used to seeing women without their clothes?"

"Not among strangers."

She paused and turned to face him, making a show of covering herself demurely from his hungry gaze.

"Han was my first lover" she informed him. "I have never seen another man but for the druids of Brokilon before. You see me differently than the druids do."

Mull let out a noncommittal huff. He stretched out his hand and brushed her arm, reveling in the firmness of her skin. It was unlike a human woman's touch in so many ways, but yet so similar. He absently took a deep breath, inhaling her woody scent with relish. She smelled of forest berries and sweet grass.

The dryad stepped away, breaking their contact. Mull instinctively took a step after her, but she held her hand up warningly.

"Something comes," she hissed, her eyebrows furrowing darkly. Mull's medallion pulsed insistently against his breastbone, growing hot as danger approached.

Drawing his silver sword with sure grace, Mull pulled Dair close to his side and looked around them, seeking the enemy before they could approach. Dair grabbed his elbow and pointed off into the darkness.

"There, Mull. They are coming."

Her voice did not waver now. Inching behind the witcher, she pressed briefly against his back and hugged him about the waist.

"The trees are dead here. I cannot help you."

He felt a slight tug at his side. One of his daggers slid from its sheath as Dair drew it for protection. The ambling shapes of more drowners gradually appeared from the darkness. There were well over a dozen, too many to count in the heavy overcast. It took him but a moment to realize that he could not rely on mere strength to win this battle. Thinking quickly, he did the fastenings around one of the vials on his bandolier. Mull did not bother uncorking the vial, he just bit off the topper and downed the contents in a single gulp.

A rush of adrenaline flooded his body, dousing him in borrowed strength. A tightness formed in his arms as the raw power surged through him, screaming for an outlet. The drowners were more than willing to oblige his need. They advanced mindlessly, maws gaping open with thirst for blood as he hacked them down. His sword struck true with each blow, blasting through the thickest body with ease. The rush of battle descended on him as his blade wove a fine tribute to death. He cut the drowners to pieces as they drew near, severing limbs with abandon.

Through the haze of misty blood Mull saw more drowners appearing from either side. There seemed to be no end to the horde. Dair cried out in genuine fear as they closed in from all sides. Her borrowed dagger did not have the power or reach to fend the bloodthirsty monsters off. Without a lull in the assault, he could not spare the time to turn and cut her a path out.

Then Dair was pressing against his back, her hair flailing wildly as she hacked at the clawing arms with desperate fury. He heard her calling out wildly, begging the forest for aid. She received no answer; the forest was shut off from the dryad's power. They were fighting on their own.

A drowner fought its way past Dair's blade and sank its teeth into her shoulder. The dryad cried out in pain and shoved it off, shrieking as the monster's venomous saliva scorched her flesh. A fallen arm caught her foot and yanked her off her feet. She tumbled against Mull's legs with a pitiful whimper.

Her cry woke something buried deep inside Mull. The strength granted by the potion flared stronger still, propelled with unparalleled force by a blinding hatred of the monsters that caused so fair a creature such pain. A terrible shout rose from his lungs, so loud and powerful that even the monsters hesitated before it. His broadsword appeared in his left hand without conscious thought, the two-handed blade swinging easily in a single hand. Abandoning all pretenses of defense, Mull threw himself into the horde with both blades singing. The silver blade cut bloody swaths through the undead, ripping them apart like paper while the broadsword flattened bodies and crushed limbs.

He was not sure how long he fought. All he knew was the gleam of his blades, the brutal cracking of bones, and the glorious splash of hot blood on his face. At some point the enemies ran out, but Mull was not finished. His blood boiled in his veins, thirsting for more destruction. His rage vented itself on his fallen enemies, hacking at the corpses around him until his arms and legs were drenched in blood.

When he was done, the potion's strength having burnt itself out, he staggered against the nearest tree and caught his breath. There was so much blood that he could not tell if any was his. He was vaguely aware of the dryad as she pulled herself off the ground and approached him with careful steps. Watching her through heavy lidded eyes, Mull planted his sword in the ground and pushed off the tree.

Her shoulder was bleeding freely, if it was only a trickle. Not bothering to ask, he pulled her closer and examined the bite. Nothing in his training had told him how dryads were affected by monster bites. Usually, drowner venom burned the wound area like acid. The skin around the bite seemed to have held the venom off. Dair hissed weakly as he probed the wound with his thumb.

"It's not so bad" she promised. Her attention was not on her own wound, but the scratches and blood that coated his body. She looked up at him for permission before reaching up to wipe the blood from his jaw. Her fingers were coated in sticky blood when she drew back. "You are hurt."

Shrugging her concern aside, he wiped his swords clean and thrust them back into their sheaths. His eyes scanned the multitude of dead for identifying markings, anything that could connect them to their past. He found nothing that would give him pause.

Dair followed him quietly, understanding his desire to leave the scene behind. She offered him his dagger back, almost as an afterthought, but he refused. Closing her fingers around the hilt, he ordered her to hold onto it.

They had not traveled long before Dair took his hand and led him off of his path. He did not question her direction, knowing full well that a dryad was never lost in a forest, no matter her familiarity with the land. Dair did not tell him where they were going, but there was a sureness in her step that made him think that she was not leading him out of the woods. Content to wait and find out, he said nothing as they walked deeper into the forest.

At last they entered a clearing, and Mull found his first glimpse of a pure and untainted forest. The trees grew tall and proud in a ring, surrounding them with sheltering branches. A handful of forest creatures wandered in and out of the trees with little fear for the two intruders. Dair dropped his hand and strode over to a large buck. The stag was a magnificent specimen of its kind, with solid color and a majestic rack. The deer nuzzled her hand lovingly, paying no attention to Mull as Dair rubbed its neck.

"This is my grove" she told him. "I have not been here long, but there was another dryad here a long time ago. We can rest safely here."

Mull nodded his consent and found a patch of grass less soaked than the rest. Drawing his silver blade, he sat down and laid the weapon across his lap. His exhausted limbs called for meditation and rest. Dair flashed him a reassuring look from across the clearing. Taking that as a sign that he would be safe, he shut his eyes and let himself draw inwards. Finding that small part of solitude in his soul, he relaxed his muscles and drifted off into oblivion. It was not a trance he would be woken from easily.

The morning came too early. Less than a couple hours after he settled down he woke to find Dair leaning over him, tugging the sleeve of his shirt back to examine the cut on his arm. His knee-jerk reaction was to pull his arm free, but he saw her right hand was coated in a paste substance. She looked up at him and held up her hand for him to inspect.

"A healing salve" she told him. "I made it while you slept."

He eyed the paste critically. In the past he had seen more than his fair share of healing salves. Few worked nearly as well as people claimed. Dryads were powerful healers though, and he doubted she would lie to him about this, not when the forest was at stake. His eyes went to her wounded shoulder, wondering if she had applied it to herself. A thin coating of the paste was over the wound and it was much smaller than it had been.

"Relax" she ordered, rubbing her clean hand soothingly along his arm. "It works much better when your muscles are loose."

Mull complied, releasing his grip on his sword and letting his hand rest limply on his lap. Dair went to work immediately. Now that he was awake she did not bother trying to remain quiet. She pulled his sleeve up to his shoulder and tucked it securely into his armor. Sure that it would remain, she began applying the salve to his wounds with finger-width strokes. There was no immediate effect save for a dull chill that eased the burning from the drowners' venom. When she finished with his arm she moved to his face and repeated the process. There were a couple other spots where he had been cut, and she spread the salve to those as well. It did not take her long. She worked with single-minded dedication, not looking from her work once.

After finished she stood and went to one of the woodland creatures. She used what paste remained on her hand to cover a few scratches that the animal had doubtless received by travelling through brambles. Mull inspected her work while her attention was diverted, noting with approval how she had used the paste effectively without layering it too thickly. He guessed that it would have to remain free to the air, or at least not covered so that it would not be smeared off the wound. That being the case, he knew his sleeve would be a problem. He solved that by ripping the sleeve away entirely.

The dryad came back to his side, noting the discarded bit of shirt lying on the ground beside him. She frowned and went to pick it up. Understanding her intentions, Mull grabbed it and tucked it into his belt. Dair appreciated the gesture.

"Are you recovered," she asked, showing no impatience. Mull waited for a moment before answering. His body felt fine, with no lingering pains or tightness that would cause trouble. Nodding solemnly, he pulled himself to his feet and motioned for her to lead them on.

If she was put off by his lack of response she did not show it. Dair inclined her head in the direction they had come and set off through the trees, moving at a brisk pace. The witcher had little trouble keeping up, although the path was rooted and the roots were slick as slime from the continuous rain. It bothered him a touch that Dair was not bothered in the slightest by the rough terrain. But she was a dryad, and this was her home turf. He had no right to be jealous.

They faced no more threats on the way out of the forest. Dair brought Mull to the edge of the woods, but she stopped there. A half-wistful smile settled of her lips as she gazed out at the unassuming hut that was Hann's dwelling place. Her hand reached out and clasped his shoulder.

"Be careful, Mull. Hann is old, but he is powerful. Do not underestimate him."

Mull did not look back. He could feel Dair watching him the entire way. Stopping only for a moment at the door, he undid the straps holding his flail and tucked the weapon into the back of his belt. Then he knocked, pounding the door as loudly as before. There was no waiting for an answer this time. Mull gave the druid five seconds. When the door did not open he kicked it in, splintering the stout wooden portal into a dozen pieces.

Hann stood halfway across the hut, clad in little more than a nightshirt and blanket. He did not appear completely surprised, but he did not look unbothered by Mull's rough entry either. Knowing the importance of silencing magic users before they could muster spells, he grabbed the druid by the throat and threw him against the hut wall. Hann let out a little yelp as his old body was smashed against the wood frame.

"What is the meaning of this" Hann stammered, drawing himself unsteadily to his feet. Mull saw his hands moving in the start of a spell. Whipping his flail around in a blindingly-fast arc, he cracked the studded end across the druid's left hand. The hand was swatted aside in a splash of blood and snapping bones.

"You," Mull snarled. "The storm."

Realization of his meaning dawned on the druid. Paling in fear, he stumbled away, nursing his damaged hand close to his chest.

"What… what are you talking about? The dryad was the cause!"

"The dryad did nothing." Mull brought the flail across the druid's other hand. The impact sent the druid spinning. "You were scorned."

Kneeling next to the fallen druid, Mull picked him up by the back of his neck and forced him to look up.

"What did you do?"

It took the druid some time to catch his breath. Moaning in pain, he mumbled something Mull could not understand. Mull shook him gruffly and ordered him to speak clearly.

"Everything is wrong," Hann stuttered. "I was angry, and I made mistakes. The storm should not have come from my power. I have never called storms before. I did not even know that I could."

"And the rest of it?"

The druid hung his head in shame. "I… I did it. I damaged her home in ways that no druid with mind ever should. It was in a fit of passion. But I did not mean for any of this to happen."

A disgusted grunt made its way out of Mull's lungs. Dropping the druid to the floor, he turned away and stood in front of the cooling embers that had been the hut's fire. The flail tapped invitingly against his knee, eager to be used again. Mull suppressed the urge with a modicum of effort.

"How do I stop it?"

"I do not know" Hann mumbled pitifully. He shrugged helplessly and sat back against the wall, eyes flicking between Mull's face and his flail. "I've tried to end it before. It is beyond my power to stop."

"But not to start," Mull growled. "How convenient."

Letting out a pitiful sigh, the druid lifted his arm and pointed roughly in the direction of the small table near his bed space. There were a handful of books out, stacked precariously near the edge. The rest of the table was covered in papers. Mull glanced over them, sharp eyes picking out the details with hardly a second's pause. They were all writings about spells, lore and arcane techniques. Many were scratched out. Mull picked one at random and looked it over. There was a long list of alchemical ingredients.

"You tried alchemy" Mull snorted. To use alchemy was either a sign of sheer stupidity or savage desperation. "How did that work?"

"Drowners" was the druid's reply. Mull was not particularly surprised.

"Idiot" Mull set the paper down and turned back to the druid. Hann had crawled onto his bed and was curled up in a ball. Glaring dangerously, Mull approached him and let the flail tap his shoulder once.

"Do you have any ideas where to start?"

"I have none. I thought that perhaps the storm had latched onto the dryad's powers. Perhaps she was keeping it in the sky."

"She's a dryad" Mull snapped. He did not need to say anything more. Hann blinked weakly.

"It was a desperate measure."

"And a fruitless one."

Feeling that the hut was safe, he flipped the flail back into his hand and strapped it back to his arm. Hann did not look any less concerned, but he gradually uncurled and crawled awkwardly to his knees. The druid heaved a weary sigh and extended his hands.

"I should send for Brokilon."

"You should. It may be too late."

Mull looked past the shattered doorway and pointed outside. The ground was so wet that standing water was rising even on this elevated position. The heavy rain had begun creating floods.

"What else could be fueling the storm?"

"There is one place of power," the druid began. "The dryad knows of it; an ancient battleground between monsters and elves. Elven sorcerers of old established a shrine in the aftermath, but the place has become corrupted. Something could be using the shrine to focus the storm."

"Can you take me there?"

"I cannot." Hann shrugged. "I do not know where it is. The shrine was lost to the forest many years ago. The dryad can find it, but I cannot."

Mull snarled and stalked out of the hut. Not bothering to say goodbye, he stormed into the rain and off towards the woods. Dair was waiting for him, eyes fixed on the bloodied flail strapped to his arm. Her breathing quickened as he approached, but she held her silence.

"The shrine" Mull ordered. "Where is it?"

The dryad stared at him quizzically, confused by the strange question. Mull growled the question again, his irritation growing in his voice.

"It is some miles to the northwest" she answered. "How do you know about…?"

"Hann told me. It may be the source."

She needed no further explanation. Grabbing his arm, she led him into the forest. There was an urgency in her step that kept him on his toes as he struggled to maintain the demanding pace. They ran for some time, not stopping until Dair ran out of breath. Mull would have found it amusing except for the pained expression in her eyes.

"The forest does not have much time" she panted, placing her hand on a tree. "They are drowning in this storm. We must stop it."

Mull took a deep breath to steady his lungs. "How much farther is it?"

"Not far. Just give me a moment to…" she straightened abruptly. "We can go now. Follow close."

Resigning himself to another sprint through the dark and wet forest, Mull took off after the dryad. She had recovered her speed after that short break, and the proximity of their destination made her even faster. More often than not he could barely make out her form as she slipped between the trees with inhuman grace.

It was not until the trees had started to fade into a swampy mess that Dair slowed down. Mull came up alongside her and waited patiently as she began picking her way through a hidden path. Mull planted his boots in her footprints, making sure to not deviate. It was slow going compared to their run, but he did not mind. The swamp, however deep it was normally, was overflowing from the rain. Even on this path that Dair trod the footing was treacherous.

At last Dair stopped and told him the ground was safe. Letting him move forward, she pointed ahead and to the left.

"The altar was there" she told him. "But the shrine was wiped away by storms long ago."

Mull nodded absently and concentrated his focus on the swamp. He felt something there, something unnatural spiraling out from the point Dair had indicated. Holding out a hand, he gestured for her to stay back. She understood the message.

His medallion began to hum as he drew close to the altar. The air grew heavy with each step. He could feel many eyes watching him, drifting close by. A shimmer drew his attention, but before he could settle his gaze it was gone. There was an invisible creature in the swamp.

A shiver tickled his leg, his only warning that the beast was circling. Knowing the danger of alerting the beast, he turned back to Dair and gestured for her to back away. She eyed him quizzically. That only confirmed his fear that the beast was not natural. Dair would have been able to feel it had it been a native of the forest.

He needed to see the beast, to know what he was up against. A monster that could hide its form from even the heavy splatter of rain would be something to see. He doubted it would be an easy fight unless he could get in a good first blow. The potion he needed was on his belt, tucked safely away in the pouch on his hip.

A silent prayer came to his lips as he undid the pouch. When the monster did not attack he felt it safe to assume that it did not consider his actions threatening. Mull did not want to push his luck though, so he took his time picking the correct vial and drinking it. The most important part would not be finding the beast, but getting close enough to it without warning it so that he could deliver a quick blow to end the fight before it began.

His eyesight grew dim and hurt for a moment as the potion took effect. There was very little warmth in the forest, making the majority of his vision dark and blurry. Dair's body radiated enough heat to form a clear outline, but that was all. Turning in a lazy, circle, Mull made a show of pointing back to the altar. In the middle of the turn stood a large and hideous monster. It was far larger than he was, easily nine feet hunched forwards. Two long and winged arms stuck out from its shoulders and stuck into the soft earth beneath it. Complementing the wings were powerful coiled legs, thick as tree trunks and armed with three dangerous claws each. Mull could not make out the details of its face, but that it was steeply sloped with a jutting muzzle and scraggly whiskers.

It did not bother Mull that the beast was easily three times his weight. Size and speed were two entirely different matters, and Mull was confident in the quickness of his draw. The monster hunched forward at just the right height for an off-the-shoulder slash. Now he just needed it to come closer.

Taking a few steps towards the submerged altar, Mull aimed to walk past the beast. It backed out of his path, malign eyes glittering hungrily at him. He waited patiently until its face came in line with his left shoulder. Pausing suddenly, he looked down and made a show of looking at the ground. The monster's eyes drifted intelligently after him, bending just slightly forward to see what had caught its intended prey's interest.

His arm rose to his shoulder in a flash. Whipping his silver sword out and around, Mull spun towards the monster and brought the sword crashing down against the startled beast's head. His attack struck true, but was deflected aside as his sword scraped against something too bony and hard for flesh. Not allowing the unexpected armor to slow him down, Mull reversed his stroke and stabbed for the monster's heart as it recoiled. This too was protected.

His sword was already slicing towards the monster's winged arm, seeking an unarmored point, when the monster overcame its surprise and lunged forwards. Its other arm smacked him in the side and hurled him into the swamp. Mull was up before it could descend, tearing himself free of the grasping muck and flourishing his sword gamely. The monster's head darted forward, fanged maw opening in a deafening roar. Mull brought his blade across the monster's mouth, chipping teeth as he was bowled over again by the sheer size of the beast.

Heavy claws raked his back, tearing at his leather armor. Mull nearly lost his grip on his sword, but a reflexive grab snatched it out of the thick water and stabbed it over his head at the beast. The blade skipped off of armor before finding a soft spot. An ear-splitting howl came from the beast and it withdrew.

Staggering to his feet, Mull assumed a defensive stance and looked the monsters over. A bright blur had appeared in the shoulder joint of the beast, dripping steaming blood. He marked the spot as he decided on his next course of action. The monster stayed back, matching each advancing step with a retreat as he sought an opportunity to strike.

His chance came when Dair rushed forward, loosing a feral cry. The monster turned to face her, distracted for a mere moment. Knowing that he had less than a second to choose his strike, Mull charged forward as fast as the swamp muck allowed. He aimed straight for the monster's wound, aiming to open it further. The monster shifted away, but it was not fast enough. A gush of hot blood splashed against his face as his sword bit deep into the monster's arm joint, disappearing halfway to the hilt in flesh.

Mull yanked on his sword, aiming to rip the blade out and create an even bigger wound, but the sword was in too deep. Recovering quickly, he leapt back out of the monster's reach and drew the flail from his arm. The monster lunged forward with its uninjured wing, swiping at his head, but he ducked under the blow and smacked the bony ligament with his new weapon. A loud cracking noise rang through the clearing as the steel-tipped flail snapped clean in half.

The blow had not been in vain. With a sinister hiss the monsters fell back, holding both wings close. That was the moment Dair chose to strike. Able to see nothing but the blood pouring from the creature's wound, she leapt onto the monster's back and started stabbing with her borrowed dagger. She attacked with little care or finesse, hacking away at whatever came within reach. She scored a few wounds on its neck, but nothing serious with the short blade.

It was only a matter of time before she would be thrown off and killed. Even with its wings injured, the monster was still large and deadly. The jerking and thrashing alone could toss her into the swamp. Drawing his last remaining sword, Mull attacked it in a desperate attempt to buy Dair time. If she was thinking she would use the distraction to get off of it.

The steel blade fared even worse against the beast's armor, rebounding off with painful force. Forcing the throbbing down, Mull struggled to get underneath its wings and to the wounded shoulder underneath. The monster kept him at bay with its powerful hind legs, kicking out in devastating blows that could easily crush his chest if they connected. Dodging the awkward kicks was not hard, but it kept Mull frustratingly at bay. His dryad companion was half-watching him as she continued trying to deepen the knife wounds in its neck. She could not let go, he realized. There was no way to leap out of the monster's reach safely. If she was to come down, the monster would have to die.

That knowledge did not encourage him, but it pushed him to stronger feats. Taking a quick step back, he drew his sword back behind him and prepared for one massive strike. The monster sensed the impending blow, and it rushed to close the gap and attack him first, but he had already started building the momentum. The heavy steel blade caught the monster full across its armored stomach. The impact knocked the sword from his grasp, sending it flopping into the tall grass with a plop.

Staggered by the blow, the monster retreated, leaning dangerously to one side. It let out a keening cry and fell onto its side. Dair leapt clear of the beast before it could pin her underneath it. She hastened to Mull's side, breathing heavily.

"What is it" she demanded, looking back at the grass and water that splashed wildly from the thrashing of the beast. "I cannot see it."

Snarling in response, Mull dropped to his knees and reclaimed his sword. He swung it once to clear the blade of the swamp muck and took measured strides toward the wounded beast, fire rising in his eyes. It glared spitefully at him, growling its defiance before his incoming blade.

He lifted his sword high over the beast's head, preparing to hack its head from its shoulders. A second's hesitation slowed him while he caught his breath. That was a mistake. The beast was not done yet, and it lashed out with both feet. With no purchase to gather its strength the blow was weak, but it was still enough to knock him flat on his back. It was up in a flash, leaning over him and bellowing furiously. For a moment he thought it would strike, and he lashed out wildly, grazing its muzzle.

Dancing back out of his reach, the beast roared one more time and turned away. By the time Mull got to his feet the monster had started off across the swamp. It struggled through the swamp, leaping across it in uneven bounds. He tried to give chase, but Dair grabbed his belt to hold him back.

"You will drown" she warned, tugging insistently. "The only safe way back is the way we came."

Mull's eyes boiled with fury as the monster faded into the trees. The heat was already fading from his eyesight, the potion expiring. He was not sure which caused him to lose sight of the beast first, the darkness or the obscuring trees.

"Damn" he grunted. Sighing heavily, he sheathed his sword and put the broken flail in its straps.

"I will track it" she promised. "The trees will tell me of its passage."

She started for the submerged altar, examining the murky water for signs of taint. Mull called out to her and told her not to bother. The heaviness in the air was leaving. It was not the altar that was fueling the storm. The beast was the source. The altar must have attracted it, but that was all.

"What manner of beast is it that can do such a thing?"

Mull shrugged. He had not seen enough to recognize the beast. Whatever it was, it was magical, and it was unique. No other witchers or tomes had ever mentioned a creature similar to the one he had fought.

"Hann should know" he said. "If not, then Ard Carriagh should have the answer."

The dryad was not pleased with the answer. She stamped her foot impatiently, frowning at the uncertainty in his voice.

"We do not have time for that. By the time you reach Ard Carraigh the land will be flooded."

"There is no choice" he snapped. "The beast has my sword stuck in its damned shoulder."

Her face fell in worry. "You cannot kill it without the silver blade?"

"Silver is the bane of monsters. It is too strong for steel."

Emphasizing his point, he tapped the broken flail on his arm. Dair did not meet his gaze.

"How long will it take you" she whispered, her voice low and despairing. Mull did not answer. Turning from the altar, he looked for the path she had led him in on and began heading out. Dair kept close beside him, saying nothing as well.

The fire in Hann's hut was burning brightly. Dair followed Mull out of the safety of the trees, her fears overcoming her attachment to the forest. The rain had slackened noticeably since the beast's retreat, settling at a light drizzle. To one suffering the drenching torrents for so long the recession was almost a gift.

Mull felt his stomach clench tightly as he saw two horses tied to the tree outside the druid's hut. Bait turned away from the sopping grass at her hooves and whinnied eagerly, glad to see her owner again. The horse next to her responded as well, though with no enthusiasm. He recognized the jagged slash of white fur that stretched from ear to nostrils with a hint of dread. Juniper had come down from Ard Carraigh.

Bracing himself for an unpleasant conversation, he opened the door, replaced by magic. Hann stood fearlessly by the fire, his hands wrapped in bandages and tucked against his sides. It was not the druid who caught his eye though, but the heavily cloaked figure beside him. The concealing cloak did nothing to suppress the images of what he knew lay underneath.

Juniper was a tall, slim woman with silvery blonde hair and a haughty bearing. Born to a minor merchant family, she had rebelled as a youth and gained entrance into the ranks of Sorceresses against her parents' will. She was a woman of uncommon beauty, with striking looks and mouthwatering curves that she flaunted without provocation, both for her amusement and ambitions. Though not the sorceress of Ard Carraigh, she was a powerful magic user with a strong prejudice against men. There was no one in the Kaedwen kingdom that Mull hated more; hated, and loved.

"There is a monster in the forest" Mull announced. "What do you know of it?"

The druid blanched visibly. "A monster? What does a monster have to do with the storm?"

The cloaked sorceress held up a hand to silence the druid. In the process the sleeve of her cloak was shrugged back to her elbow, revealing a slick black fingerless glove. The symbol of a flaming eye was imprinted on the palm of her glove.

"That monster, as you call it, is of no concern to you, witcher. I assure you, it will trouble this region no more."

"I did not ask for your opinion… _witch_," Mull snarled, glaring balefully at the eyes hidden beneath her riding cloak. He looked back to Hann and let him know that the druid was not off the hook. "What is it?"

"The druid did not cause this beast to come," Juniper interrupted. "I have been tracking it for some time, and it came here just recently."

"Horse shit! The rains eased after I wounded it. It's been drawing out the storm."

The sorceress pulled back the hood of her cloak, letting him see the steely grey eyes that regarded him with calculating intelligence. It took a lot of effort to not get lost in those piercing orbs. For the first time since he had met her she was wearing a full tunic and breeches, doubtlessly because of the weather. Even with her body covered her presence called out to him, clawing at the animalistic urges in his soul. He was not alone in that. Juniper drew men to her like flies, overwhelming weaker willed beings with the powerful aura that radiated longing for her.

Dair pressed close to his side, feeling uneasy in the presence of the powerful sorceress.

"What do you know of the beast" Dair demanded. Her voice trembled with passion for her forest. "What is it?"

Juniper did not answer her. Crossing the little hut in three steps, she took Dair's hand and gently but firmly removed it from Mull's arm.

"You are unprepared to face such a monster" she told him. Her hand stretched out and tapped the empty sheath at his side suggestively. "Where is your sword?"

"Buried in the beast's hide."

"Ah." A tight-lipped smile creased her lips and she stepped away. "So you wounded it?"

Mull snorted in distaste. "Enough games, witch. What do you know of the beast?"

"I will help you hunt it" she answered. "On two conditions."

That put a sour taste in his mouth. Juniper's conditions were rarely pleasant.

"Go on."

"One," she murmured, letting the word hang on her lips for too long. He was too used to her teasing to respond. "You may not ask about the beast. Two, you cannot kill it. I would capture it alive."

Dair started to speak in protest, but Mull silenced her. Nodding slowly, he agreed to her terms. There was no use arguing. The forest was running out of time and Juniper could not be cajoled without many hours. It was dangerous, agreeing to her terms without argument. In the future she could easily turn to it and call precedence.

She would have been a fool to not recognize the spite in his tone. Storing the victory away in that infernal part of a woman's mind that never forgets, she tilted her head and gestured to a neat pile of fresh hay lying against the wall.

"It will be a tiring journey, witcher. Rest tonight. We go in the morning." Her eyes flicked across his armor for a moment, studying the torn strips and bloodied fabric knowingly. "I will heal your wounds should you need it."

"No."

Mull went to the hay and lay down, not caring that his armor and weapons made the position awkward. There was a lot running through his head, and he needed silence to straighten his thoughts. He received it, more or less, but it was not enough. The others were talking quietly, moved to the far side of the hut. He heard Dair's voice rising angrily from time to time, then Juniper's biting replies as the two descended into a territorial battle for dominance. Powerful as Juniper was, she was talking about Dair's forest. The dryad was determined to have more say in the matter of the beast.

The voices calmed after a long and fruitless argument. Mull felt rather than heard Juniper retreat to a third pile of hay and lay down. Hann did as well, making more noise due to his injured hands. That left Dair. He wondered briefly if she would return to the forest, or at least the tree outside. Evidently dryads could stand for extended time away from the forest. A warm hand slid across his face as Dair crawled up against him and rested her head on his arm.

Exhausted from the day's constant running and the battle with the beast, Dair fell asleep quickly. Mull was not so easily taken, but the dryad's touch eased the tension from his body. He could not feel much of her soft form through his armor, but the comfortable press of her body against his served as a better relaxant than any bed he had slept in.

Juniper's glowering eyes only made the position more enjoyable. No amount of posturing or bias could hide the foundation of their relationship. She hated him for being male, but she lusted for him for being powerful. When used delicately, it was his most potent weapon against her. This was one of those times. Prudence called for him to limit the hostility between them, as they would be relying on her help to defeat the beast, but his pride was still reeling from being forced to acquiesce to her terms. She deserved it more often than he gave it anyways.

"We are drawing near" Juniper announced, her brisk tone cutting through the silence like a knife. They had been travelling for over four hours, hunting the beast through the sorceress's magic. Neither Mull nor Dair told her, but the dryad had been watching for the trail as well, and she had been keeping up with the beast better than Juniper ever could. The rain had continued to slacken as the beast fled farther from the old shrine.

Mull already had several theories on the nature of the beast. For certain, he knew that it was not of natural origins. Juniper's secrecy meant that the beast was the work of some experiment. Sorceresses and wizards were always meddling in experimentations, and more often than not nothing came of it. From time to time some fool would create something, but that rarely came to good ends.

"How can we fight it if we cannot see it" Dair asked. Mull did not have any more potions ready that would aid them in seeing the beast. They would have to rely on Juniper for that. Again, he found himself needing her with no way to bargain. Something in his gut told him that this day would come back to haunt him. That was a matter for another time though. What mattered now was killing the beast.

He had a string of three potions lined up just for this, potions that would quicken his movements, strengthen his muscles, and turn his blood poisonous the instant it came in contact with the air. The last potion was a closely guarded secret of the witchers. It was a dark potion, equally dangerous to the witcher as it was to his friends and enemies. He would have to be extra careful while the potion lasted.

"Do not worry about the beast's veil" she told them. "I will remove it once we encounter it."

Her words were brusque, leaving no room for follow-up. If her attitude that day was any indication, they were not going to get anything else out of her. She had hardly spoken so far. By letting Dair sleep beside him he had stung her pride, and Juniper was not a woman whose pride healed easily. It was an insult that he had not used often, and every time it infuriated her to no end.

Not that she would ever admit it. What made matters worse was that the dryad had recognized the source of her anger right from the moment she opened her eyes. Neither sorceress nor dryad liked the other, and Dair made a point of sticking close to Mull, just to spite the arrogant sorceress.

Had the situation been less serious, the two woman would have been at each other's throats by now. For three hours Juniper had been rude and insulting while Dair had clung to Mull, taking every opportunity to brush against him. It was a foolish battle of wills, the kind that Mull would never comprehend, but he said nothing. Neither woman would take kindly to rebuke at this point. Knowing this, Mull did his best to ignore the two and concentrated on preparing for the monster.

A short time later Juniper motioned for them to halt. Pressing up against a thick oak, she peeked out around the trunk and pointed farther into the forest.

"It is there" she told them. "Prepare yourself now, witcher. Once I remove its veil it will be alerted to our presence."

Mull was one step ahead of her. Downing one potion after the next, he flooded his veins with the alchemical concoctions that would aid him in the coming battle. The combined effects of the potions made his nerves tingle. It was uncomfortable, but he was used to such nuisances. Drawing a pair of broad throwing knives from his cross-belt, he looked to Juniper questioningly.

"The forest is still strong here" she whispered. "I will call what aid I can to help you."

Juniper's lips curled in distaste as Dair leaned against Mull and hugged him. Reaching to her side, she produced a thin mace and gripped it testily. It did not look like much, but Mull had seen her crush helmets with the little thing. When properly enchanted she could fell young trees with it.

"We wait for you" Mull told her. Juniper flashed a haughty smile at his deference. Turning to face the direction she had pointed, she chanted softly. A soft glow erupted in the midst of the trees, outlining the monster in glowing flames. For a moment the glow held, then a flash of light blinded them and the monster was revealed.

Mull's first thought was that he was facing a giant, malformed Fledler. The monster shared the vampire's winged arms and pointed snout, but its legs were too thick and its eyes were the wrong color. Spiky fur coated all but its wings, and it was covered near completely in metal armor. Frowning darkly, Mull noted that the armor was strapped to it by thick leather bands. His suspicion had been confirmed. The monster was an experiment from one of the magic users of Ard Carraigh.

There was no time to dwell on the revelation. Springing from the trees with a roar, Mull fell on the surprised monster with both knives twirling. He spotted his sword easily enough. It was buried even deeper into the monster, as if the monster had accidently shoved it in while trying to remove the blade. For three precious seconds the monster was slow to respond to his unexpected attack. Mull used the opportunity to hurl both blades at the monster's downy throat, one of the few unarmored spots on its body. The first knife hit, but was unable to pierce through the monster's thick fur. The second struck true, and buried itself into the monster's flesh.

Recoiling in pain, the monster flailed wildly at him. Mull ducked under the clumsy attack and went for his blade. A sudden burst of grass flew up to meet him, and a thick root sprang from the ground and wrapped around the monster's right leg, pinning it to the ground. Dair was lending her power to help him.

Utilizing the monster's pinned leg as a step, Mull scrambled up its armored torso and grabbed the hilt of his silver sword with both hands. He kicked off of the monster's chest and ripped the blade free, releasing a thick spray of blood in the sword's wake.

The wound was serious, but it was hardly fatal. The monster pushed him back with its other arm, buying itself enough time to start tearing at the root holding it down. Mull did not give it much time. Wielding the silver blade in one hand, he circled around the monster and leapt at its back. Ignoring a flesh wound completely, Mull hacked at the leather band holding its armor together. His first two blows nearly broke it, but the monster spun to ward him off before he could land the final strike. Its wing whipped around towards his head at blinding speed, but with his potion-enhanced reflexes he merely ducked under the blow and thrust upwards with his sword. The blade cut into the thinner membrane and ripped a wide gash in the monster's wing, grounding it if ever it could fly.

Spinning away from the wing, Mull continued his attack with a cut across the monster's legs. The monster fell to one knee, but it was hardly finished. By the time he brought his sword back around the monster was kicking out at him, vicious claws hooking for his stomach. Mull leapt back and away, dodging the bulk of the blow, but one claw caught on his leather chest piece. Something ripped and he was yanked back into the monster's reach. Quick as a flash the monster darted forward and bit down on his shoulder.

Searing pain lanced through his body as the monster chewed, shaking its head back and forth and tearing the wound wide open. He was thrown into the air as the monster whipped its head up, hurling him away with contemptuous ease. Branches flashed past him before he slammed into a thick tree trunk.

Thick tangling vines slowed his fall, bearing him gently to the ground. Mull landed with a thud and scrambled to his feet, blood pouring from his shoulder. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, the tendons shredded by the monster's bite. Sizzling blood scorched his shirt and armor as his blood melted everything it touched. Without a second thought he began removing his bandoliers before their precious contents burned.

His one recompense was that he was not alone in the pain. The monster had freed its leg from the entangling root, but it was not giving chase. A pair of hawks was flapping about its head, pecking insistently while staying too high for its injured reach. Not that the monster looked interested. Black liquid bubbled in its mouth and it staggered drunkenly, a garbled shriek fighting its way out of its throat.

"By the gods."

Dair came to his side, eyes wide as she watched the monster twitched and stumbled, falling to all fours as his poisoned blood ate at it from the inside. Its defiant roar faded to a strangled groan. It was dying, Mull knew that without needing to confirm. The monster's thrashing had made sure that he lost a lot of blood. That same blood had caked its mouth and throat, coating it in a deadly acid. The monster had caused its own death.

"What is happening" Juniper shouted, the outrage on her face plain to see. She jabbed him in the chest with her mace, not caring about the terrible wound in his shoulder. Faced with losing her toy, the sorceress cared little for his own problems. "What in hell did you do to it?"

"It killed itself" Mull snarled, fighting to take in a deep breath. His flesh was pulling away from his shoulder, the loose threads barely enough to hold the arm to the body. Dair tucked his arm against his chest, reaching for the part of his pack that held the torn shirt sleeve. She wrapped his arm up in a flimsy bandage.

Not satisfied with the answer, Juniper hissed and slapped him across the jaw and hurried over to the monster, now prone and writhing in its death throes. Mull did not waste his time watching. Dair grabbed for his shoulder, intent on sealing up the wound as best she could. Her fingers touched his blood and she let out a horrified scream, recoiling as the blood burned her hand.

"Gods! Your blood-"

"I know" Mull hissed. He grabbed her burning hand and wiped the blood away, rubbing her skin clean with his glove. Even as he did he felt the glove melting off his fingers. "Damned thing bites hard."

A shudder coursed through his body, sending him staggering against the tree. Dair held him steady for a moment before easing him to the ground. He glanced down at his shoulder. Bad idea. The sleeve had already been torn away, but the strap's leather was burned and eaten away, falling limply from his arm as Dair brushed it off. The tips of her fingers were blackened and she flinched as she moved them. The monster had taken more than its own account from him.

"What can I do" Dair asked, eyeing his shoulder helplessly. Her hands played in her lap, eager for some way to help. Mull patted her arm comfortingly, forcing a grim smile through the pain.

"Give it a little while, it will wear off."

She did not like his answer, but she agreed to wait. Needing something to do, she eventually stood up and went to go check on the torn root that had held the monster at bay. Skirting around the beat's carcass, Dair knelt beside the root and began tending to the torn joint.

Mull watched her through half-lidded eyes as she worked. He had never actually seen the dryad use her powers to any noticeable extent. At her touch the shattered root began to heal and regenerate, growing firm again. When she finished she guided the root back into the ground and it slid under the surface.

Looking down to his arm, he saw that the blood had ceased burning his clothes. His glove, partially melted from contact, was drenched in his lifeblood. At least it was still there. He idly tried pressing his shoulder against the joint, hoping to stem the tide of blood. His efforts were fruitless, but they did catch Dair's attention. She rushed back to his side, eyeing him expectantly.

"Is it safe?"

He nodded, and she went to work. Her paste would not help him with something this bad, so she settled for the next best thing. Placing one hand on the gaping hole in his shoulder, she reached to the tree behind him and began speaking to the tree. A few seconds of gentle whispers later and a soothing feeling began to pour from her hand, easing the pain in his shoulder. The ravaged flesh knit slowly back together as Dair channeled the tree's life force into his shoulder. It was slow going, but the blood stopped flowing.

For a moment he was not sure if it would be enough. He had lost too much blood. Even with the bleeding stopped and the shoulder knitting back he was past the point of recovery. Dair did not seem to agree, and her voice became pleading as she tried to get more healing power from the tree.

"No use" Mull growled, watching the epidermal layer of skin growing back onto his shoulder. His eyes threatened to shut against his will, too tired to remain open. He felt Dair slap him suddenly, her voice raising quickly as she tried to shake him from his reverie. It did not help. A feeling of calm washed over him, setting his soul at rest.

It was not a bad way to die, felling a monster. Better than a knife in the back or never waking up. A smile came to his lips as he remembered past deeds. The graviers, drowners, bruxa… even the men and elves. He felt no regret, his life had not been wasted. It was the best one of his kind could wish for. Through fading eyes he saw a second person coming to his side.

Juniper knelt beside him, lending her own magical expertise to Dair's efforts. He felt the sudden rush of warmth infuse him as she attempted to keep him from the brink. Four hands prodded and poked at him, trying in vain to elicit some kind of response. There was not enough energy in his arms to do more than twitch his finger.

"Mull! Come on, Mull. Not like this. Not yet" Juniper shouted, her head inches from his ear. His jacket was wrenched open and she pressed her hands against his chest, feeling for a beat over his heart. He was not sure what she felt, but she sounded desperate. A blast of electric current surged through him, directed from Juniper's fingers. He knew what she was trying to do.

"Mull!"

His head dropped forward into Dair's hands. They tried their best to wake him, but Mull was already gone.


End file.
